We're All Scrambling
by Silly Twin Stars
Summary: Soul hates the library, but he loves naps. Unfortunately, Maka needs a very specific book, and he's in the way.


**Author's Note:** "Your face is too close, and I can't concentrate." Thanks to Oblivion-Time and makapedia for sending me the exact same tumblr prompt at the same time. It was fate.

Hey friends! I really wanted to use this prompt to try to slink back into Soul's voice in The Hybrid Theory, which is my circa 32,000 year old longfic (that I'm cooking up an update for, by the way!) So, if you enjoy Soul's voice in this story, totally check that story out, if you're keen!

Also, makapedia is my betababe eternal. Thank you for your eyes and for your italics enabling :)

* * *

He didn't ask for this.

Soul sits at the table, fiddling with this phone, squinting at his Most Played songs and wishing he were somewhere else. It is a Tuesday, and much like any other day, he is spending his time by doing his two favorite things: scrolling through his playlists and Regretting.

To be fair... he never _does_ ask, does he? He never asks to be mercilessly dragged all over town at Maka's whim; never deigns to question why she makes him accompany her on every single errand on her ever-lengthening, never-ever-finished to-do list. In human or weapon form, it doesn't matter: she totes him around and he accepts his fate.

But this. He didn't ask for _this_. Even on the days where he doesn't mind getting out of the house, he definitely doesn't ask to be dragged to the _library_.

He's not being dramatic. The library is, objectively, the most criminally uncool of all locales, where silence flattens his brain like a paperweight and listening to music at a normally acceptable volume is an act so blasphemous it borders on profane. Jazz is not meant to be listened to on mezzo piano, and as an act of protest, he clicks the volume button up on his phone.

One half of one second passes before Maka's eyes slide in his direction, green daggers poised at his throat, and he clicks the volume button down, expending one quarter of his daily Cool Points on trying to not look sheepish.

He can't get comfortable, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't even try to put his feet on the table like he does at home. This is a library, after all, where Maka is equipped with not one but a million potential weapons, spines looking solid and deadly in the unforgiving fluorescent light.

She is in homework mode, and he does not feel brave enough to toe off with her about anything, especially when he should probably be studying too, with their last ever round of final exams coming up.

Opening his binder, he looks down at his notes. Chicken scratch and otherwise incomprehensible text stare back at him, and he concludes that studying is not on the menu.

Headphones slammed onto his ears, he listens to his mezzo piano jazz and seethes.

Occasionally he wonders why he puts himself through such torture. It is certainly, he insists, one-hundred-percent because he is a self-proclaimed Lazy Ass with nothing better to do, and absolutely _not_ because lately, he finds himself looking for excuses to be around Maka, looking for ways to spend time with her outside the roles they've established for themselves. He chooses not to entertain the thought that he might kind of _like_ being around her in a not-weapon, not-roommate capacity, even if it means he ends up in places he wouldn't normally be.

Maka's sure to be here for the next three hours, and he does not have enough willpower - nor enough battery life, he realizes with a grimace as his phone ticks down to 27% - to make it to dinnertime. His compounded lack of charger and snacks forces a sigh out of him, and Maka glares at him again.

"If you're bored, go look around," he hears her say (quite clearly, as his music seems to be more piano than mezzo at this point). "Maybe you'll actually find something you like."

 _Unlikely_ , he thinks, but he gets up anyway, appreciating the chance to step away for a minute. He thinks about her too much these days, and nothing good can come from those daydreams.

He wanders down the aisles of books, and titles such as _Witches!? What to Do About Pesky Covenly Problems_ and _Arachno-Who? A History of Anti-Academy Organizations_ jump out at him. He spends enough time hearing about this stuff from Maka - even though they're almost out of school, the history lessons never stop, and he escapes into the next aisle in search of less headache-inducing fare. He navigates the library the way he navigates everything else: with a healthy dose of skepticism and by cutting a lot of corners.

It's not that he doesn't like studying, he realizes as he walks. He doesn't hate studying when Maka sits on the other side of the couch, feet propped up on his legs, textbook touching her nose, forehead wrinkled very _not-adorably_ as she skims the page. He doesn't hate studying when Maka falls asleep at the table and he carries her to bed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she snuggles beneath the blankets. Doesn't hate studying when it means she's got an early day and he gets to drive her to the Academy, her body warm against his in the spring air, all of the trust she places in him quietly humming along with the engine as they skid into the parking lot.

There is a common denominator here, but it is very likely not studying.

He won't think about it, he decides as he runs his hand down a row of books. He won't think about it because there's nothing that will come of this little preoccupation he's been entertaining for the past few years. His comfort zone is exactly that - _comfortable_ \- though it's easier to make it seem like an inconvenience than to say what it really is: a blood-curdlingly _terrifying_ concept.

She's his best friend, after all. Thinking about your best friend in that way is _weird_. But… it's good weird. Weird like... when you come home after a long day and see that you've already put the dishes away, but you can't remember doing it. It's simple, surprising, but not altogether unpleasant or unexpected.

Telling her, though. That's the terrifying part. Because it's _bad weird_. Because how do you tell your best friend that you love them, anyway? How do you just stroll up and say "Hey Maka, I've been thinking about kissing you since we were fifteen, and would you mind too much if I did that, or whatever?" Because what happens _if she doesn't feel the same? What happens if you ruin everything?_

When he thinks of cool way to do it, he will.

He's not very good at brainstorming, though, so this is not terribly reassuring.

Book after book stares him down as he makes his way through the aisles. He's always preferred the auditory to the visual, and as he expects, nothing catches his eye as he winds through the stacks. His stomach grumbles again, and he thinks about how he's going to get through the next few hours of his life. Soon he grows tired of thinking, and tired in general, and realizes that the best, most effective way to pass his time has been in front of him all along.

At the end of a specific aisle in the History section lies his escape, and he finds himself walking towards an errant beanbag chair that sits nestled against the shelves.

Naps are, indisputably, the coolest thing to do at the library.

As he lies there, mentally patting himself on the back at this stroke of genius, he sinks into a state of prime relaxation, letting the flickering torches on the walls lull him into an almost-nap. For some amount of time, he lets waves of jazz flow over him, allowing himself to momentarily forget his best friend dilemmas, his good weirds and bad weirds.

Until somewhere, in his sleep, a small ping of awareness goes off in his brain. Half awake, his eyelids lift slightly and he registers a pair of black boots inching their way towards him, stopping just short of the beanbag.

Dreaming in a library is weirdly realistic, he thinks muddily as his eyes shut again. He relaxes again for about three seconds before a shadow moves in front of his eyes.

Before he can react, three points tentatively sink into the beanbag, pushing down around him: two spots on either side of his leg, and another just above his left shoulder.

It quickly becomes apparent that he is definitely not dreaming, that there is a person _climbing on him_ right now, and he's about to scythe-ify himself to slice this person's throat to next Tuesday until he remembers his not-dream, with very familiar boots scuffling down the aisle.

This can't be happening. What is she _doing?_

He is pinned, frozen beneath the Maka-shaped shadow that hovers above him. But before he can get too carried away by how her shirt is brushing his chin and how _distracting_ her bare legs are against his jeans, he senses the beanbag dip slightly backward, as if she's moving past him, reaching for something.

He realizes what is happening. She needs a book.

 _Concentrate on the music. On the music_ , he says to himself via ritualistic self-chant, where he prays to the Cool Points Gods to spare him, because he can't plan for these sorts of things, okay? He doesn't know how to atone for the fact that his meister loves books so much, clearly needs this _particular_ tome so urgently that she cannot wait until he wakes up to grab it off the shelves he has been so rudely blocking in his slumber. _Concentrate. On. The. Music._

Predictably, he does not concentrate on the music.

Instead, he concentrates on the way skirt fabric is tickling his fingers, torturing him as his hands lay rigidly against the beanbag, immobile. He concentrates on the way she smells, that perfect Maka-blend of vanilla body wash and badassery. Her knee slides up his leg a little, moving towards his hip as she continues to reach for her prize. He waves goodbye to 25 more Cool Points as they sail away on the tides of his dignity.

Despite his numerous qualms about the library, he no longer wishes he were somewhere else.

Still. _Why wouldn't she just wake him up?!_ His sleep has never been a priority for her before, especially not when she is studying and he's _supposed_ to be. Where is her academia-incurred wrath? Why isn't she just knocking his legs out of the way like she normally does?

The whistle-blowy part of his brain reminds him that _he's_ not doing anything, either.

Other than suddenly imagining what her hips might feel like under his hands.

He must've been monologuing too loudly, because he senses it when she freezes, now fully extended over his bean-filled prison. He can't see her, but he knows that she's looking at him. Even with his eyes shut, he knows that unsettling thrill of having her gaze trained on him. It does nothing to improve his heart rate as the shadow above his eyes grows darker. She's leaning in toward his face, _inspecting_ him, probably totally unaware of how compromising this looks.

This is confirmed when she says, so matter-of-factly, so without embarrassment that it makes him even more mortified: "I know you aren't sleeping."

Mentally squirming, he lifts an eye open and is greeted with her most accusatory face: nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. He decides that this really isn't all that fair, considering she's the one effectively _straddling him_.

All he was doing was napping, and he will take no blame. He has done nothing to bring this very uncomfortable (but also not entirely unwelcome) situation upon himself.

"What?" he grunts. His voice doesn't crack, which is practically a miracle. He already knows what she wants, but he still has fifty of his Cool Points left, and he will cling to them for dear life.

"I need a book," she says stiffly, eyes now fixed on the one particular specimen she has in mind. As she says it, she determinedly reaches forward, lifting her left knee, and suddenly she is no longer effectively but _actually_ straddling him.

He freezes, because he cannot conceive of what is happening to him, cannot comprehend how she doesn't realize that she's _too damn attractive and isn't even trying._ To be fair, this is just a typical day with Maka, she who is forever oblivious to the spell she's had him under for the past five years. She who straddles her weapon in the corner of the library and doesn't even realize what she's doing, apparently.

His Cool Points trickle down to twenty-five percent as he sputters, and he is so baffled, so utterly clueless as to how she could be doing this, that he stares up at her and says the only thing that's been on his mind for the past thirty seconds: "You're _straddling me_."

Because, as previously mentioned, she _is_. Saying it aloud makes it more real for both of them, it seems, because her cheeks turn pink, and for a moment, he's glad that she has finally joined him on his train of mortification as it hurtles toward the ground.

Something in him catches, though, because the look she's giving him is different than what he expects, almost like she's _reluctant_ to move, and suddenly, his face is burning, too. He doesn't mind this turn of events: the two of them flustered, blushing together on the beanbag.

His headphones are still on, and mezzo piano is not loud enough to block out the sound of his heartbeat as it hammers in his ears.

"Uh. Sorry," she mutters after a moment, bangs hanging in front of her eyes, and something in her voice is… weird.

 _Good_ weird.

She withdraws her hand from the shelf _without taking the book,_ even though that book is what got them into this whole mess. "I'll just-"

"You don't… have to?"

He realizes what he has said far too late, and his mouth snaps shut, eyes widening. Okay, not necessarily the suave, in-control disposition he'd like to have in this moment, but with his Cool Points in exponential decline, it's the best he can do.

"...What." She's tense, frozen in his lap, eyes wide as her knees dig into the sides of the chair.

"Uh." He stares up at her, deliberately not noticing the flush that shoots down her neck. "I meant. You should… get the book?" His voice cracks on the last word. Miracles are fickle friends.

"Oh," she says, eyes still blown open, watching him carefully. "Right."

She starts to lean forward again, and in horror, he clears his throat before she can do that _hover thing_ again. "I, uh. I'll move, okay?"

He hadn't thought it was possible, but she turns even redder, eyebrows drawing together. They watch each other for another second, before she nods silently, almost resignedly, and backs up for him to slide his way off of the beanbag. He flops onto the floor and stares at the ceiling as she retrieves the book, wanting to lie there and die peacefully in the wake of the worst-and-best thing that could've possibly happened to him in a library.

"It's… almost dinner time," Maka says solemnly from beside the beanbag, looking down at her feet. "Let's go."

And she shuffles down the aisle, leaving him lying there. When she turns the corner, she shoots him a glance that fills his insides with lead.

He opens his phone. Spends a couple of seconds shuffling through his playlists and Regretting.

She's upset, and he gets the feeling that it's his fault.

* * *

 **Never fear:** Part 2 is coming soon :)


End file.
